


Yes, Chef

by amscray_punk



Series: Yes, Chef [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Spot's a chef and Race is a bartender, a handful of newsies in a fine dining establishment, idk you guys this just flew out of my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: Spot's the head chef, Race is a bartender and also a complete shit head who enjoys torturing him. Flirty Sprace, once again.*I dunno, this just sorta happened, and it was fun.**Rating for language and suggestive situations. I don't think it's enough to be rated M, but please let me know if you disagree and I'll be happy to change it.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Yes, Chef [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953946
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70





	Yes, Chef

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I dunno what to say, this was inspired by a meme if I'm being completely honest. My brain needs very little encouragement to go BUT SPRACE and take off running, so. Pls enjoy

Race loved booze.

Well, to be more specific, Race loved _serving_ booze. Which was convenient, considering he was the head bartender at Jacobi’s, a small fine dining restaurant in Manhattan. He was a chatterbox by nature, so spending his evenings leaning over the bar and conversing with his patrons hardly ever felt like actual work. He didn’t even mind the uniform: black pants, black button-up, red tie, it could be worse. Sure, there were less-than-desirable parts of his job, like dealing with those assholes who told him to _make it strong_ or _light ice, please_ , thinking that meant they would get free liquor. Some of the servers could be a bit much to work with, too, especially since he was responsible not only for his own customers but he made the drinks for all the tables, too. But there was one perk of his job that he enjoyed above all else, and that was screwing with the head chef.

Not literally screwing—well, that too—but the highlights of Racer’s shifts were almost always coming up with new and irritating ways to annoy Spot (Sean) Conlon. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Spot—quite the opposite, in fact. They had been not-quite dating for not-quite four months, but to their coworkers, it was still a secret, because _technically_ Race was an hourly employee and that _technically_ made Spot his boss, or at least his superior. (That wouldn’t be the case for long, as Race was on the cusp of a promotion to assistant manager, a slight bump from his current position as head bartender.) And frankly, Race found that fact to be pretty hot, rules be damned. He had a sneaking suspicion that Spot felt the same way, which was another reason (as if he needed another one) Race enjoyed torturing him at work.

Spot was always far more professional than he in these situations, and Race absolutely lived for the heady combination of annoyance and arousal that he could coax into Spot’s eyes with his antics. He had barely been at work for twenty minutes, one Tuesday afternoon, when he caught on to his first opportunity of the day. Henry, a prep cook around his age with kind eyes and an easy smile, came through the swinging doors from the kitchen carrying a large, plastic container.

“Hey, Racer,” He greeted him as he reached the bar. Race nodded a reply, glancing briefly up from where he was slicing lime wedges. Henry slid the container across the bar. “Just need some beer for the fish batter.”

Race nodded again, setting down the knife and moving to the sink to wash his hands. He was drying them when he suddenly frowned; the look on his face said he’d just remembered something direly important.

“Henry,” He said, his expression one of mock-seriousness. “I need you to go get Spot before I can give you this beer.”

“Uuhh,” Henry stuttered, frowning in confusion. “Why…?”

“We, uh, we ran out of the IPA last night, and I don’t think anyone’s replaced the keg yet,” Racer replied, satisfied that his ‘reason’ made up for his slight stumble. “Just have him come out so I can show him the other options.”

Henry raised his eyebrows in the sort of way that said he frankly didn’t care _what_ the reason was, as long as he had one. Race chuckled as he watched him head back toward the kitchen. Spot couldn’t be an easy person to work for, he mused, what with all that pent-up aggression and the need to prove that he was a hardass in spite of his stature. A moment later, the hardass in question whirled through the swinging door, heading for the bar. The scowl on his face brought a shit-eating grin to Racer’s and he leaned onto his elbows across the empty bar.

“Heya, Spotty,”

“What’s this about not having the IPA?” Spot wasted no time with pleasantries as he walked behind the bar, heading for the row of beer taps. Race sidled up to him, careful to stay far enough away that they _might_ still look professional from afar.

“Keg blew last night,” Race answered, one hand toying absently with his still-loose tie. The motion drew Spot’s eyes away from the taps momentarily before they snapped up to focus on Race. “No one’s changed it, yet. Thought I might be able to interest you in one of our other options…” He trailed off, stepping closer to reach across Spot and point to the furthest tap. As he did, his chest brushed against Spot’s shoulder. He barely held back a grin when he noticed Spot swallow, clenching his jaw in annoyance. Or, what passed for annoyance when they were at work, anyway.

“Racer,” Spot said quietly, voice tight. “We use the same beer for the batter every single day. There is a new keg downstairs, correct?”

“…yes,” Race admitted, just barely catching himself before he pouted.

“And it can be changed, correct?”

“Yes, but it’s so heavy, Spot,” Race wheedled, daring to rest his hand on Spot’s bicep; the toned muscle of which he could clearly feel even through the thick material of his bright white chef’s coat. He was momentarily distracted as his eyes dropped lower, to Spot's forearms, which were exposed, thanks to his rolled-up sleeves, and covered in tattoos. “Maybe if I had someone strong to change it for me—”

“I know damn well you’re strong enough to change it, Racer,” Spot’s words were accompanied with an eye roll, although he sounded more weary than annoyed. Race huffed.

“Fine, I just wanted to see you, okay?”

“Bab- ugh, Racer,” Spot braced himself against the bar, dropping his head back as he sighed. He looked sideways at Race, who couldn’t help but smirk at his near miss. “We can’t be like this at work,” His voice was so low Race wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been so close. “You know that.”

This time Race did pout, and Spot looked like he was fighting a smile. After a moment, Race sighed, nodding. “I know,” He conceded, quietly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Spot assured him, just as quietly. Just then Romeo, one of the evening servers, entered the dining room, and Spot cleared his throat, backing out of the bar. “Get that keg changed and get Henry the beer as soon as possible.” His tone was distinctly authoritative now, and Race couldn’t—and wouldn’t—deny the little thrill that shot through him as a result. “Don’t waste my time like this again, Higgins.”

“Yes, Chef.” Race _definitely_ didn’t miss the look that flashed across Spot’s face at those words, and if he said them a little more breathlessly than was necessary, well, that was his business.

It was still early in the evening, before dinner service had really picked up, when Race was visited by another kitchen worker. This time it was Les, a teenaged food runner who almost always got stuck with the shitty errands. He stood a little awkwardly at the end of the bar, waiting for Race to finish cashing out his customer.

“Hey, Les,” Race greeted him cheerfully. He liked the kid; he had spunk.

“Hey, Chef sent me to ask if you could go get a bottle of red wine from the closet.”

“What for?”

“Coq au vin,” Les answered, sounding bored. “I’d get it but, y’know. Minor, and all that.”

Race snorted, nodding. “Right, sure. Why can’t Spot get it?”

“He says he’s busy,”

“What, like I’m here on playtime?” He gestured to the now-empty bar around him, rolling his eyes when Les just frowned in confusion. He sighed. “Where is he?”

“In his office,”

“Pffft. Okay, fine. Tell him I’ll get it.”

“Cool, thanks,”

Race watched as Les trudged back to the kitchens; he almost felt bad for the kid, wondering what was next on his menial to-do list. Race called to Romeo to watch the bar for a few minutes and headed downstairs. The wine cellar wasn’t much of a cellar, per se, more of a closet, stocked floor-to-ceiling with a myriad of brands and varieties of red wine. (White wine stayed in the cooler.) Only the bartender and the managers, including Spot, had keys to the wine closet, which simultaneously made Race feel important and annoyed the shit out of him—there was nothing worse than having to run away from a packed bar to fish out a singular bottle of wine for a server.

He found the necessary bottle of Burgundy with minimal effort, and was halfway out the door before he smirked, turned, and grabbed a bottle of cheap merlot, too. He locked the door and fairly sprinted up the back stairwell that led to the dingy hallway of small offices behind the kitchens. He set the Burgundy on a rack of dishes just outside Spot's office and knocked. Spot grunted a response and Race pushed the door open, poking his head inside.

“Hey, is this okay for your recipe or whatever?”

“What?” Spot asked without turning away from the computer. Race slipped fully into the office and closed the door. The sound seemed to startle Spot, who whipped around, eyebrows raised. His mouth opened slightly at the sight of Racer in the small office space, and Race grinned, taking that as a small win. Finally, Spot noticed the bottle in his hand and he read it quickly. “Damn it, Racer,”

“Whaaat?” Race asked, feigning innocence.

“You know damn well we don’t use merlot for the coq au vin, Higgins.”

“Ooh, I like it when you call me Higgins,” Race practically purred, flipping the lock on the door behind him and stepping closer to Spot, who was still seated. Spot’s jaw was clenched again as Race took another step, and the warning was clear in his eyes. Race ignored it.

“You had one job,” Spot said almost wearily. Race noticed he was gripping the arms of his chair rather tightly.

“Well I’m _sorry_ if I’m not a world-class chef who knows what kind of wine to use for what fancy dish,” Race prattled on, setting the bottle carefully on Spot’s desk as he reached his other hand out to touch Spot’s shoulder, fairly innocently. Spot sighed.

“You are the head bartender, though. Shouldn’t you know these things?”

“Technically, yes,” Race admitted, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling as he seated himself firmly in Spot’s lap, straddling him in the chair. Spot huffed, surprised, even as his hands fell naturally to Race’s hips. He was clearly annoyed, but he didn’t remove him, so Race took that as an invitation to lean in and brush his lips against Spot’s ear. “Maybe I need a refresher course,” He murmured, grinning in satisfaction when Spot shivered involuntarily. “Maybe you could teach me a thing or two.”

“Shit, Racer,” Spot breathed, eyes fluttering closed for a brief second before he caught himself. His grip on Race’s hips tightened and he lifted him up with minimal effort, ignoring Race’s halfhearted protests. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that? Or at the very least you’re gonna get me fired.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Race grumbled as he stood, pointedly leaving the rejected bottle of merlot on Spot’s desk and retreating to the door. He felt Spot’s eyes on him as he unlocked the door and slipped out, only to poke his head back in a moment later. “Y’know, I have to do inventory of the wine closet later if ya wanna… teach me a lesson.”

“Oh my God,” Spot groaned, rubbing both hands over his face. When Race giggled at that, Spot grabbed a pen from the cup on his desk and chucked it at the door. Race yelped, only just closing it in time. He was grinning like a loon as he picked up the correct bottle of wine and fairly shouted over his shoulder at the closed door.

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

Tuesdays were weird. Occasionally they would be incredibly busy, and the time would pass in a blur. Most of the time, though, they were rather slow, and Race really had to work for his tips. Usually, he could find at least _something_ interesting about his patrons and their lives. But tonight, his bar was half-full, and half of them were regulars who’d told him their stories time and again. The other half were painfully boring, as they were more interested in the basketball game on the TV behind the bar. Race sighed and checked his watch. Only seven-thirty. He chewed on the inside of his cheek idly, considering. He was mildly hungry, but mostly he was antsy. He caught Romeo’s eye and lifted his chin in a _c’mere_ gesture. After assuring that Romeo was, in fact, not busy, Race asked him to watch the bar so he could grab a smoke. Romeo readily agreed, always eager to talk someone’s ear off at the bar.

Race made his way leisurely through the kitchen on his way to the back door, poking around unsubtly for idle food. His eyes caught on a lone plate under the heat lamps, looking a little worse for wear. He leaned closer to inspect it, only to jump when a sharp _clang_ of metal on metal caught his attention.

“’Ey, back off, Racer,” Albert, the grumpy line cook snapped at him, having banged his metal spatula against the stainless steel counter. “That’s my dinner.”

“Oh c’mon, Al,” Race wheedled, to no avail. “That food’s dead as roadkill, you don’t want that when you can make yourself something nice-“

“Nope.”

“Ugh, fine,” He sighed, lingering. After a moment, he tried his luck again. “How ‘bout a smoke?”

Naturally, Spot chose that moment to enter the kitchen, and Race recoiled only slightly under his subtle look of disapproval. Spot hated that he smoked, and frankly so did Race, but nicotine is a careless bitch, and Race was bored. Albert rolled his eyes but fished his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them through the window. Race caught them, barely, and tossed Albert an exaggerated wink.

“Thanks, babe.”

“Fuck off, ya scavenger,” Race chuckled, turning toward the back doors again but he stopped dead, startled by Spot’s stony expression.

“Watch your mouth, DaSilva,” Spot growled, and Race very nearly bit his lip in front of the entire kitchen staff. Albert’s eyebrows disappeared into his red hair; he was clearly surprised, but Spot _was_ his boss.

“Whaddaya mean, Chef? He’s just here for free food.”

Spot seemed to catch himself then, pointedly not looking at Race. “Still,” He said gruffly, busying himself with prep work that was, frankly, Les’s job. “Watch your tone.”

“My _tone_ —”

“Hey,” Spot snapped, glaring at Albert through the window. Race held his breath; he couldn’t imagine being on the receiving end of that glare—okay, he _could_ , but not if Spot actually meant it. He was suddenly incredibly glad to be a lowly bartender. “You’re on thin ice anyway, after that shit you pulled last night.”

“What shit?” Albert asked indignantly. Behind him, Henry was rolling his eyes as he slid from the salad station to the grill, tending to Albert’s forgotten orders. Race began to tiptoe toward the back doors again.

“You left Henry to clean your station and mop—” Spot cut off suddenly, seemingly startled by Race’s movements. “Are you ordering food, or not?”

“No, Chef,” Race said quietly, playing the part of scolded front-of-house employee quite well, in his opinion. He liked to think he knew Spot well enough to notice the playful twinkle in his eye, or maybe he just saw it because he wanted it to be there.

“Then get back to work.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Race was back at the bar, ten minutes later, nodding along to his elderly regular’s third rundown of Christmas with his grandkids when Les showed up again, rather unexpectedly. Eager for distraction, Race excused himself from his regular and walked over to meet him.

“What’s up, Les?”

“Chef said they had an extra,” Les explained, handing Race a plate of hot, fresh chicken parmesan. Race only barely pared his wide smile down into an appreciative one as he took the plate from the boy. He nodded, trying hard to ignore the warmth spreading through his chest.

“Thanks, kid.”

By the time the last server shuffled out the door that night, the bar was sparkling clean. Business had tapered rather early, so the cooks had left after finishing the last table’s meal. Race loosened his tie gratefully, letting out a sigh. Even slow nights could be grating. When he popped into the kitchen, the only other people there were the dishwasher, a grouchy punk named Oscar something, and Spot, who was bent over the prep counter, writing something down. With a smirk, he noticed the bottle of cheap wine on the counter next to his elbow. Race watched him for a moment, hardly realizing he wasn’t in control of his facial features until he heard a snicker from the dish tank. He narrowed his eyes at Oscar.

“What?”

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,”

“Oh, fuck off,” He sneered, but took the hint and walked over to Spot, thankfully out of Oscar’s earshot. “Hey,” He greeted him, quietly.

Spot looked up from his list, offering him a slight quirk of lips that was almost a smile. “Hey,”

“I’m uh,” Race hesitated, running one hand through his hair and letting it rest on the back of his neck. “I’m heading down to do inventory, now.” The words were innocent enough, but they held a weight and Race could see Spot absorbing it as he nodded, lips pursed. Race brushed past him, heading toward the back stairwell.

“Oh hey, wait,” Spot called after him. Race stopped and spun around, eyebrows raised. Spot nodded at the wine. “Take this with you, since you’re headed that way.”

“I’m sorry Chef, I couldn’t possibly,” Race faux-grimaced, shrugging as he walked backwards toward the stairs. “My hands are full.” They weren’t, at all, aside from the clipboard and his keys. “Could ya bring it down for me, when you get a sec?” Satisfied that Oscar wouldn’t see, Race winked, his grin only growing wider when Spot flushed, gritting his teeth. “Thanks, Chef.”

Race wasn’t in the wine closet for five minutes before the door was pulled open, slammed shut, and locked, all in a matter of seconds. A little startled, he whirled around, smiling when he noticed it was Spot—of course it was Spot; they’d be the only ones left in the building, now. He opened his mouth to greet him but let out a small squeak instead when Spot grabbed his tie and pulled, yanking him across the small closet and shoving him roughly against the closed door.

Race barely had time to take a breath before Spot’s mouth was on his, one hand still twisted in his tie. Race let out a surprised, but pleased, sound and responded eagerly, fisting his hands in Spot’s chef coat to pull him impossibly closer. Spot dropped his tie, moving his hands to grip Race’s hips tightly as he pressed him into the wooden door. Just as Race moved to deepen the kiss, Spot pulled back; Race let out a little whine of protest before his breath hitched as Spot moved to kiss down his neck, not relinquishing his tight hold on him.

“You can’t keep doing this shit at work,” Spot growled against his skin, sending a shudder through Race. He reached one hand around Spot’s neck and gripped tightly, letting out a breathy laugh.

“But it’s so much _fun_ ,” He argued airily. Race knew he wouldn’t be able to focus much longer on stringing words together if Spot kept kissing his neck like that. “And you’re so hot when you’re all flustered.”

“Ugh,” Spot grunted, pulling away to look at Race. “I’m still your boss.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Race nodded, biting his lip as he raked his eyes down over Spot’s form. Seeing that this had had the opposite effect to what he’d intended, Spot rolled his eyes, though he didn’t quite come across as annoyed; fond, maybe, but not annoyed.

“That means you’re still under me, Racer.”

“I’d like to get under you,” Race shot back, tilting his chin up ever so slightly in a challenge. Spot growled again, deep in his chest, and Race wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it but _shit_ , it was hot. He swallowed hard, feeling for the first time like he wasn’t entirely in control of the situation. “Spotty,” He started, clearing his throat when his voice came out a little shakier than he expected. “If it makes you feel better, my promotion to manager will be official this weekend…”

Spot leaned in to kiss Racer’s neck again, but he was decidedly gentler this time, brushing his lips ever so softly against the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Race shivered, eyes falling shut as the hand on Spot’s neck slid up to grip his hair.

“Fuck, Spot…” He breathed, letting out a quiet whimper when Spot grazed his teeth over his skin.

“Y’know, that _does_ make me feel better…” Spot murmured, clearly enjoying having the upper hand; frankly, Race enjoyed giving it to him. His breath stuttered when he felt Spot pulling on his shirt, untucking it from his pants.

“And hey,” Race said shakily, giving Spot’s hair a gentle tug. “Since you already sent the dishwasher home, there’s no one here to catch us—”

“Racer.” Spot huffed, standing up straight to look into Race’s eyes, which he knew were rather dazed at the moment.

“Hmm?”

“Shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

Race grinned devilishly, nodding eagerly.

“Yes, Chef.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr at amscraypunk and let's yell about these idiots together


End file.
